“That article,” said Lowell, “was an essay upon the ‘Comedy of the Noctes Ambrosianæ,’ and it opened with an Oriental anecdote.”
“Well,” said Mr. Watts-Dunton, “that does interest me very much.”
“And I will go further,” said Lowell: “every line you have written in the ‘Athenæum’ has been read by me, and often re-read.”
“Well,” said Mr. Watts-Dunton, “I confess to being amazed, for I assure you that in my own country, except within a narrow circle of friends, my name is absolutely unknown. And I must add that I feel honoured, for it is not a week since I told a friend that I have a great admiration for some of your critical essays. But still, I don’t quite forgive you for your onslaught upon my poor little island! My sympathies are not strongly John Bullish, and they tell me that my verses are more Celtic than Anglo-Saxon in temper. But I am somewhat of a patriot, in my way, and I don’t quite forgive you.”
The meeting ended in the two men fraternizing with each other.
“Won’t you come to see me,” said Lowell, “at the Embassy?”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“Then you ought to know!” said Lowell. “Another proof of the stout sufficiency of the English temper—not to know where the American Embassy is! It is in Lowndes Square.” Then he named the number.
“Why,” said Mr. Watts-Dunton, “that is next door to Miss Swinburne, aunt of the poet, a perfectly marvellous lady, possessing the vitality of the Swinburne family—a lady who makes watercolour landscape drawings in the open air at I don’t know what age of life—something like eighty. She was a friend of Turner’s, and is the possessor of some of Turner’s finest works.”
“So you actually go next door, and don’t know where the American Embassy is! A crowning proof of the insolent self-sufficiency of the English temper! However, as you come next door, won’t you come and see me?”